


And I'll Love You For The Rest Of Our Lives

by orphan_account



Series: Missy and Andrew Stories [2]
Category: Big Mouth (Cartoon), Big Mouth (Netflix), Big Mouth - Fandom
Genre: College, F/M, First Time, Future Fic, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 22:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Andrew and Missy accidentally get high off Jessi’s weed brownies, they have a joint hallucination in which they meet their future married selves.





	And I'll Love You For The Rest Of Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Here's more of these perfect nerds. I really wanted to set them in college because I like to imagine the Big Mouth crew will all still be really close by then. I don't know if we'll actually get to see the kids aged up into adults, but I would love to see it in canon. Season 3 just got confirmed the other day. Can it be next year yet?
> 
> I physically could not ship Andrew and Missy any harder if I tried. This show is so fun.
> 
> Let me know what you think if you read. <3

Andrew Glouberman barely survived high school, what with his raging hormones (thanks, Maury) and a class and jazz band schedule that kicked his ass, but finally, here he is in his freshman year of college. He and Nick chose to go to the same SUNY university and moved into a townhouse together with the generous financial assistance of Nick’s parents. Their place is just off campus, four bedrooms, and Jessi and Missy live there also, taking the bedrooms upstairs. Jessi goes to the local community college and Missy commutes to Cornell. Maury and Connie have been ruthless about the boy/girl boy/girl living situation—sometimes when Missy gets in the shower Maury’s in Andrew’s ear, prompting him to imagine soap bubbles and hot water all over her—but, so far, the Big Mouth crew has behaved respectfully under duress.

 

It’s easy for Nick and Jess; Nick’s been dating Gina officially for two years and Jessi almost always smokes too much for her libido to be active. For Andrew, however, though it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, it’s a struggle. Living right next to the girl with the curly hair who he’s dreamed of losing his virginity to, and then some, for the better part of five years. She’s probably the most perfect roommate and friend possible, which just makes it all worse: she makes breakfast for them most days, even if it’s usually vegetarian, keeps the house smelling intoxicating with incense, and cleans the common areas meticulously just because she genuinely enjoys it. She’s the smartest of the bunch for sure, too, so she helps them with homework and exams late into the night. Andrew’s still in love with her.

 

He still has the ripped half of the photo strip—faded, wrinkled, and tear-stained—that snapped the moment he spilled his guts about forever in the photo booth at Jessi’s bat mitzvah. It’s wedged between the folds of his old wallet, with receipts for things he’s too anxious to return and the unused condoms Jay gave out as favors at his nineteenth birthday party. She recently showed him the bulletin board in her room where she has her half of the photo—the half with the actual puke in it—stapled next to her puppy calendar. She says it reminds her of “the good old days.”

 

At thirteen, Andrew was under the impression that puberty stopped when you turned eighteen, like a magical switch that would shut off on the date. Unfortunately, the ride ain’t over for him yet, although the girls say they don’t see Connie nearly as often. By now, Andrew’s had about a handful of near-sex encounters, mostly making out on second base and getting awkward head from girls he knew in high school, but the jumble of memories he does have from those one-offs Do Not Help but add color to his burgeoning, adult Missy fantasies.

 

Today, a Saturday, she’s up at 6:30 a.m. running the blender for her carrot-kale protein shake, and Andrew is up because he’s Andrew, and sleep evades him. Missy’s dressed in an old grey hoodie and a pair of black yoga pants that—he’s not gonna wax about the way they hug her now, else Maury will march down the stairs with his bag of dicks and remind Andrew that he didn’t relieve his morning wood. Instead, this morning, he stared at the ceiling in the dawn light for an hour, not wanting to disrespect her again, waiting for it to die.

 

“Good morning, Andrew,” Missy greets. “I’m just on my way to my 7 a.m. hot yoga class. Oh, hey, did you wanna come?”

 

“Fuck yeah, you do.” There Maury is, flexing his hands on Andrew’s tense shoulders. “Imagine her bending over in those thin excuses for pants, in a sweating, hot room full of p—“

 

“Well, I don’t really know anything about yoga.” Andrew’s flicking Maury’s fingers off him. “Though I have had this crick in my neck, and I do see the merits of meditation for someone who panics as often as I do.”

 

“Yeah, so do I!” Missy pours her lumpy shake into a tumbler. “You have been complaining about your back. You know, I do give a mean massage, just ask Jessi. Now  _there_ _’s_ a girl knows how to relax. Almost too much.”

 

“Would I have to wear yoga pants? Because I’m not sure—”

 

“That your hung Kielbasa won’t slip right out of those bad boys?”

 

“Maury, please. Because I’m not sure that I have the—body type.”

 

“The wearing of yoga pants is customary,” Missy says, “but there are so many different styles these days. The wide, genie pant, the kinds with the little holes going up the sides. But anyway, what you have on now will be just fine.”

 

 

 

They drive to the class in Missy’s silver Toyota Hybrid, Andrew shivering in his t-shirt and loose mesh shorts and Missy cranking up the heat even though it’s been broken for over a year. The classroom is a long, white room with a mirror wall that faces front; the temperature is toasted warm and several women are already scattered about the wood floors, stretching on mats, conversing with the instructor.

 

Missy brought Andrew one of her spare mats and sets them up close to each other, side by side, in the dead center of the room. Andrew wishes she had chosen the back, because he has a general sense of the contortion that yoga involves, and he doesn’t wanna look like the Michelin man attempting to fold in half. But he’s sure that Missy picked the middle on purpose, like she wants them to feel included in the sea of bodies.

 

Plus, she’s so pretty. A girl like that deserves to be front and center.

 

“So, how hot is it actually gonna be in here?” Andrew says as they sit on their mats, Missy cross-legged, with her eyes closed. “Because I can already feel myself sweating.”

 

“Oh, it’s gonna get hot. She keeps it at 105 degrees to be exact. Like the sauna, for 90 minutes.”

 

“Is that healthy?”

 

“Uh, I think so? Your sweat helps you maintain a normal body temperature. Homeostasis, the body’s natural, intelligent mechanism of self-regulation. Don’t be afraid to let it drip.”

 

He’s so glad Maury isn’t here.

 

The class begins with the instructor dimming the lights and asking everyone to sit like Missy already is, cross-legged with their eyes closed. Andrew takes a moment to remove his glasses as Missy pulls her sweatshirt over her head, leaving her in only a yellow sports bra. Andrew swallows, squeezing his eyes shut when several other women around her do the same. _Okay, stay cool,_ he thinks. _You’_ _re a_ _mature_ _adult._ _This is fine._ _You_ _can do this._

 

It turns out, actually, that he can. His vision is blurred, for one, from the sweat coating his lashes to his lack of glasses, the slow, winding movements of his classmates hard to make detail of in the dark. The guided instructions from the professor are harder than he thought they would be, though, less contortion and twisting and more holding extended poses, his lips trembling and muscles shaking as he sweats it out.

 

Missy, next to him, is a professional. He really tries not to look at her, not her foggy reflection in the mirror and especially not her legs when he has to bend over to her side, but what he can perceive is that she’s graceful, her shining body not shaking a single bit. Even still, for all her poise, he can’t get a boner from this, maybe because he’s too tired to, light-headed and disgusted from being soaked in his own sweat, or maybe because this isn’t about that, and maybe he’s old enough to start taking the moments in his life for face value, for grounded reality.

 

In the car after class, Andrew says apologizes out loud for drenching the towels she’s laid out for them over her seats, and apologizes internally for his rank body odor. Not that Missy doesn’t also smell like she’s been sweating for an hour and a half. She makes a long-winded joke about how badly they both need to shower before trailing off mid-sentence in it, staring at him and gnawing her lip.

 

“What?” Andrew says.

 

“I just. I like the way your face looks when you haven’t shaved in a couple days. You know I’ve always been team mustache.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” He’s blushing, god, can she see he’s blushing? “It’s just getting so hard to tame it when it grows back so fast.”

 

Missy must know he is, because she grins a little and tucks some of her hair behind her ears, the way she does when she gets “glitter tummy.”

 

“Anyway,” she says, “uh, don’t shave, if you want. I like it.”

 

 

 

That night, Nick and Jessi are throwing a party for their friends from their improv class. Missy spends the pre-party afternoon baking, vegan sugar-free brownies and baklava and carrot cake, making Jessi sit with her and taste test everything, which the redhead doesn’t complain about. She’s baking herself, weed brownies. Andrew watches the Knicks game with Nick in the living room, loving the sweet, warm smell that wafts in from the kitchen. He’s still going strong, hasn’t gotten off all day, even if his morning shower was particularly difficult, and even if Missy’s wearing a flowing hippie skirt and her hair smells so nice and living with her is going to kill him, he swears it.

 

The party is a modest fifteen people, celebrity impressions and Cards Against Humanity and passing Jessi’s bong across the sectional couch. Andrew still doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to act at parties, still doesn’t drink that much and still hasn’t made any new college friends, like Nick and Jessi. But he’s happy to see his friends so happy: Nick invited Gina, Jess’s wry jokes have her friends in stitches, and Missy has mostly been quiet and peaceful, sitting and listening to other people’s conversations, chiming in with facts sometimes and letting her smarts show.

 

When Missy gets up to go to the kitchen and serve dessert, she calls Andrew over to join her. They take the trays of brownies and cake out of the fridge, setting individual portions out on plastic plates.

 

“God, I wish I could have cake,” Missy says, her eyes glistening. “I didn’t wanna subject _everyone_ to sugar-free _everything_ , so the carrot cake is old school. Try it, let me live vicariously through your mouth.”

 

Andrew snorts through her wording of that and takes a bite of a slice. Sinful as always. Girl can throw down.

 

“I can’t believe your body won’t let you eat sugar. It’s like you’re seeing the world in dimmer color or black and white. God nerfed you.”

 

“I know, right? But, as much as you guys make fun of it, the vegan, sugar-free stuff really isn’t that bad!”

 

“I beg to differ.”

 

This leads to them taking generous bites out of the brownies they thought were going to be sugar-free.

 

“These aren’t...horrible, but...yeah, that’s definitely weed I taste.”

 

“Oh, God, Andrew, we’ve made a mistake.”

 

When Nick and Jessi come into the kitchen and find out, of course, they’re in hysterics.

 

“Shit, this batch is really strong, too.” Jessi’s holding Nick up as he cradles himself on her shoulder, crying from laughing so hard. “It’s, like, one-third weed butter in there. I’m sorry, we should’ve labeled the trays.”

 

“My perfectly clean record,” Missy’s saying, “gone like that. What’s gonna happen to me? What will they say at NASA when I get drug tested for my dream job? Am I gonna get paranoid? Am I already?”

 

“Babe,” Jessi says, “this is the first time you’ve had pot, it’ll take three weeks at most to get out of your system. As for paranoid, yeah, I’d say your car is heading up the ramp. To the highway.”

 

“So...I don’t really feel anything.” Andrew’s not nervous about a drug test, and he sort of abstractly thought he’d try it one day. When he was 25. “But I already have an anxiety disorder, so if this is gonna make that worse? I need to know. And maybe seclude myself.”

 

“Guys,” Nick says, composing himself, kind of, “the key to being high is _preparing_ yourself for it. Take it from me, I had a _bad_ trip the first time—you were there—but lucky for you, edibles take an hour to do their thing. So settle in, grab a comfy chair, maybe each other—it’s gonna feel weird, and you might like time travel or talk to a talking dog, but you’re with us, and we love you, so you’re safe. As long as you remember that it’s gonna be gone in the morning, just relax, laugh about it. Tell yourself it’s gonna feel good.”

 

Ten minutes later, Missy and Andrew sit beside each other on the living room loveseat, asking each other in low voices “if they felt that” as the party plays a rowdy Cards Against Humanity round across the way. Andrew is too nervous to say much to Missy, knowing that they have to stick together in this, their first high, but wondering if maybe she thinks that this was his fault somehow.

 

So Andrew keeps looking over at Nick, who’s sitting in Gina’s lap. Replaying what his best friend said to him about this all. _Tell yourself it’s gonna feel good._ The power of positive thinking. They learned that in yoga.

 

“It’s going to feel good,” Andrew says out loud.

 

Missy looks over at him. “You think so?”

 

“I do.”

 

An hour later, they feel it. They haven’t moved from the couch because they’ve realized they _can’t_ move, or at least, that trying to move would be An Event. Their limbs are sated and heavy, and Missy’s started speaking slower, giggling at random—Andrew’s just so relieved she’s not paranoid—started telling him she could trust him with anything, her life, in fact. That she’s never told anyone her detailed conspiracy theories about GMOs, that she knows they deny science, but she’s telling him now.

 

Two hours later, still on the couch, Andrew’s convinced they’ve started hallucinating. “Is your hair, like, vibrating?” he asks her; they spend an inordinate amount of time trying to determine whether it is, singling out sole curls in their hands. Andrew won’t vocalize how purely orgasmic it is to touch her hair, alone, how fibrous, silky every strand feels to his swollen fingertips. Missy says she’s seeing stars, that the walls are morphing into galaxies, “and does that rug from my dad’s Mosque look like the carpet from _Aladdin_ to you? _I can show you the world..._ ”

 

After singing the entirety of the Disney song, they realize that they probably could’ve gotten off the couch the whole time. They decided to go outside, then, because it’s nice out. They walk down their street under dancing yellow streetlights, and the cold, fresh air feels beautiful to Andrew like it never has before; he’s always been slightly agoraphobic, but like this? He could paint with all the colors of the wind. No wonder people love the outdoors.

 

“Are you still okay?” Andrew asks her, as they walk in peaceful solitude towards the cul de sac.

 

“Yeah. I am.” Missy holds his hand.

 

Suddenly, the street starts to morph in front of them; like a mirage, the townhouses lining their path shift into sleek, metal and glass walled lofts; the parked cars become black, uniform, computerized hover-cars, floating above the road.

 

“Where are we?” Missy says.

 

“It looks like...the future.”

 

A large, looming house sits alone at the end of the cul de sac. They stop before it in unison, staring up at what looks like it’s fourth story. Someone exits the house, then; Missy dashes just off to their left, pulling Andrew along to hide them behind a hover-car, to watch the someone.

 

“Hey, that guy looks,” Missy says. “Well, he looks like you.”

 

The man does indeed bear Andrew’s face, give or take thirty years. He looks like his dad, or at least, he’s got his dad’s pot belly, carrying a garbage bag to what looks like a trash chute or compactor on the side of the house. Future Andrew is a shmuck, mishandles the bag and drops it onto the pavement; out from it tumbles dozens of dirty socks.

 

“Holy shit,” Andrew mutters at Missy’s side. “If that’s what I think it is—”

 

“Are those jizz-covered socks? Like the ones they found outside your temple that time you went to prison?”

 

“So future me never gets married. He spends his life jizzing into cotton. Oy vey.”

 

When Future Andrew’s finished dumping socks into the chute by hand, he raises a fist at the sky, then turns around and walks back into the house.

 

“Well, at least you’re doing very well for yourself financially,” Missy says. “That house is _extraordinary_.”

 

“Maybe it’s not even my house. Maybe I’m some kind of squatter. Maybe I _murdered_ the guy who lives there.”

 

Missy lifts her eyebrows, frisky. “You wanna find out?”

 

She takes his hand again, firm, and drags them closer to the house; she has them crouched down, just under one of the first story windows.

 

They peek the tops of their heads over the metal sill, looking through the glass. They find Future Andrew standing in a living room surrounded by three children, the eldest of which he’s giving a stern talking to.

 

“Okay, so the socks were maybe my kid’s.” Andrew notes with stomach flip that the kids all have dark, curly hair, and look mixed. Black mixed.

 

“Hey, your kids look kind of black."

 

“I was just thinking that.”

 

They duck down in unison when the eldest kid is seemingly dismissed from the conversation, headed towards the stairs with dramatic stomps. Andrew’s heart pounds hard beside Missy as they wait to look again; he knows it doesn’t matter, that they’re probably hallucinating all of this, that maybe they never left the couch in the first place, but is it stupid for him to hope the hypothetical mother of his children in this scenario is her?

 

Missy pops up to check the window again first; they now find Future Andrew sitting on a couch that looks more like a stone slab than a couch, alone. Eventually, someone comes wandering down the stairs to meet him. Dressed in a gold robe, black, illustrious hair in dreadlocks, a woman who looks strikingly like Missy takes a seat beside Future Andrew, placing her hand on his knee.

 

“Oh my God, that’s you," Andrew says. "You’re my wife.”

 

They watch, quiet and with quickened breath, as Future Andrew and Future Missy sit and talk, smiling, hands entwined. Andrew’s never been one for reading lips, but he knows Missy’s an expert; whatever they’re saying, all soulful looks, Missy is overwhelmingly intrigued. Andrew watches her, watching them; her hands are clutched to her chest, her expression is serious, and all her emotions dance within her big, beautiful eyes.

 

“Oh.” Missy looks away and looks at Andrew, and he turns to find the future couple kissing each other. She turns back to the scene too, and Andrew feels a lump in his throat form, watching his future self run his hands through his lover’s hair, turn her head at angle to kiss her neck, let his hands slide into her robe.

 

“It feels like...” Andrew gulps. “It feels like we shouldn’t watch them.”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

They get up, walking slowly down the street from whence they came. Their surroundings shift again, back into the normal suburban. They move in silence for a while, but soon, Missy reaches for his hand again, smiling at up him. She pulls him close to her, arm-in-arm.

 

“So uh, do we triple hyphenate our names? Because Glouberman-Foreman-Greenwald is a mouthful...”

 

 

 

When they get back to the house, Andrew finds that Missy is no longer fucking around.

 

Wordless, like a woman who knows what she wants, she takes him upstairs to her room, closes the door, and kisses him hard. They’re making out in seconds flat, five years of sexual tension, wound up, releasing back. Missy slots her thigh between his legs, pressing the hard bone of her hip against him with purpose.

 

“I’ve wanted you so much,” she breaks to tell him, raspy. “I’ve wanted you all day long. You drive me crazy.”

 

Andrew feels her voice seep through to his bones as her mouth covers his again; there it is, that kick that sends his blood flow south, her tongue consuming him, idol worship. Missy pushes Andrew up against one of her closet doors, hands in his hair and tangling with his shirt. He lets himself touch her body, gently gliding down her sides, squeezing her ass. She smiles into their kiss.

 

Breaks again to say, her voice low, “I can feel you starting to twitch...”

 

Andrew dials back the urge to apologize, jerk his hips away. She wants this. She shows him as much, trailing her fingers feather light over where he’s definitely twitching, pretty damn near close to straining, behind his denim zipper. He would totally say something back, if his brain wasn’t short circuiting, seeing her hands there.

 

She goes on tiptoe to whisper in his ear,

 

“Even just seeing you flaccid in those shorts this morning...”

 

“Well, if you liked that, you should know that I’m a grower, not a shower.”

 

For all that Missy growls and bites his ear, Andrew’s instantly imagining how much shit Maury’d be giving him for that line. If he was here. Andrew’s surprised the hormone monster isn’t here, in fact, stomping around, supplying intrusive thoughts and shit to say that only _begins_ at grotesque.

 

No, this room is theirs alone; it’s quiet, save for suckling and bated breath. It’s respected.

 

Missy’s hands are down his pants a second later; he makes a horribly embarrassing noise when she bypasses boxers all together, fingers fumbling around his length. He’s rock hard, now. Manages to use what little blood is left in his brain to return the favor. She’s wet as fuck, hot and slick for him.

 

“Take me to bed, Andrew.”

 

With a confidence he did not know he had, he strips her bare atop her sheets, removing her blouse, sliding her skirt down her legs, reveling in every inch of brown skin that’s revealed to him. She’s so beautiful; never really developed a chest, post thirteen, but she’s perfect, he wouldn’t have her any other way. His cock now free, naked himself, he presses himself down on her body, the base of his shaft gliding over her labia. Her eyes flit closed and she shudders. He’s never been more in love.

 

He gets up to shuffle through his jeans, taking the strip of condom packets from his wallet and opening one up. He perches back above Missy, sliding it over himself slow, and god, the way she’s looking at him, watching him prepare for her.

 

“I never thought I’d say this,” he says, rolling the last of the condom on, “but thank God for Jay.”

 

He lines up with her entrance, anticipation making him throb, and she reaches up to grab his shoulders, bracing herself. She massages them as he pushes forward, and Andrew almost passes out from the feeling of her. So wet and tight.

 

“Better than socks, right?” she chuckles.

 

“So much goddamn better than socks.”

 

They kiss each other the entire time; it was never this way in porn, but he’s with someone that he’s close to, someone he’s probably never going to want to stop kissing, ever again. He drives his thrusts both fast and slow, trying to make this last as long as he can, but she’s not doing him any favors, her hands so grabby, scratching his back, gripping the fat on his waist.

 

“Y-you’re really feeling my love handles—”

 

“You know what they say, more cushion for the pushin’—”

 

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good—”

 

She buries her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder, crying out into his skin as her orgasm sweeps over her. He’s done, so in heaven and done after feeling her come, following after her not long after, seeing stars in the aftershocks.

 

They lay in bed together after, half on top of each other, sweat cooling and breath panting. Missy lays her head on Andrew’s chest, and Andrew can feel his heartbeat pulsing against her cheek. She traces circles on his stomach with her finger.

 

“So,” she says, “earlier, do you think—do you think that really was the future?”

 

Andrew doesn’t know, but he knows that for whatever it’s worth, what happened today has made at least one dream come true.

 

He smiles, kissing the top of Missy’s forehead. “Who’s to say?”

 

 

 

When Andrew wakes the next morning, in Missy’s bed, it’s to the smell of a burning joint. Maury. Sitting on Missy’s dresser.

 

“Well, look who finally got his dick wet. I bet you were wondering where I’ve been. I knew this was gonna happen, so I kept myself _very_ occupied. Me, my dicks, Connie, and seven of her vaginas.”

 

Andrew rubs his eyes, reaching for his glasses on the end table. “You _knew_ this was gonna happen?”

 

“Apparently, Missy was no longer fucking around. She told Connie she wanted your dick, eight inches inside her, right before she kidnapped you for her little yoga class. I didn’t think she was actually gonna do it, but Connie insisted. Sure enough, I watched that class. She was eyeing your pecker through your shorts like a cat in heat.”

 

Andrew looks at Missy, still asleep, tangled hair and drool on her pillow. He smiles at her, snorts. He had no idea, not until she made it very clear and kissed his mouth, that the pining had been. So mutual.

 

“Anyway, I’m proud of you, kid. You did things the right way.” Maury takes a drag. “You _made love._ ”

 

“Wait, so does this mean...you’re not going to be my hormone monster anymore?”

 

“Nah, I’ll still be around. You’ll be seeing less of me, though.”

 

Maury ashes, stands up, and opens a portal back to his world, giving Andrew a wicked grin.

 

“Eat her pussy when she wakes up. Women love that shit.”


End file.
